


Pass Me The Night

by astreamofstars



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astreamofstars/pseuds/astreamofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe she's drunk on Bill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pass Me The Night

**Author's Note:**

> For larsfarm77 in the bsg_epics Ship Swap. I know she loves New Caprica, and when we spoke about this originally, she said she always enjoyed ‘first time’ fics, so here’s my take on that. This pairing isn't new to me, but writing them in this way sure is! It’s been an interesting exercise in learning to think about writing in a very different way, and I hope it’s an ok first attempt.
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful [info]somadanne for being a quick and fabulous beta ♥

There’s been something in the air all day: a crackling, electric _promise_ , the way the atmosphere feels when a storm is building. Laura loves storms. She’s missed standing by an open window, watching for that moment when the first bolt of lightning hits and the clouds burst, releasing a flood of rain down to wash everything clean. There’s not been a cloud in the sky all day, though, and she suspects that build up, that energy, that promise of _release_ has nothing to do with the weather.

The New Caprican sky turns a deeper purple at dusk than the sky ever did back home. She’s gazing up at it, entranced, when Bill murmurs in her ear something about getting away from the crowds. There’s music, of sorts, being played; Laura really misses dancing and would love to join in, but the mix of substances coursing through her bloodstream tells her that coordination isn’t going to be her strong point this evening, and there’s nothing some members of the public would love more than watching the ex-President fall on her ass. Instead, she lets Bill take her hand and lead her away from the makeshift village centre, towards her tent.

The sandbags they find themselves lying on are not that comfortable, but Laura can’t really find it in herself to care all that much. She’s loose-limbed and relaxed for perhaps the first time since the end of the worlds, and right now, that’s all that matters. Tomorrow, the sting of New Caprica will be a constant presence again, but tonight, _tonight_ , it’s dulled enough for her to make-believe it gone, and she treasures the sensation of peace. The intoxicating musk of Bill’s skin, combined with the booze and the contents of those little cigarettes, is enough to make thinking tricky, and she simply rests her head against his chest and idly plays with the buttons on his uniform jacket, breathing him in as he lights another joint, passing it to her after a breath.

They trade it back and forth until it’s gone.

She’s talkative when she’s stoned, all the musings that chase each other around her mind spilling out in a stream, and she listens to herself talk, marvelling at her own ability to form coherent sentences. He starts to sing, a little off-key, and she gets the giggles, the way she does, the way she did the few times she was high back in school. This feels like school, hiding out behind the gym with a boy she liked. Like a time when essays and makeup and what to wear to a party were the only worries she had.

He turns his head to look at her, his eyes a little red-rimmed, but tender and full of ... something too complicated to deal with this evening, when the stars are coming out and the softest of breezes is wafting the scent of roasting meat and wildflowers through the air. Tonight’s a night for simplicity. That’s all she wants.

He opens his mouth to say something difficult, and she does the only thing she can think to do, in the haze of her foggy mind, to stop him. She kisses him.

It’s a messy, sloppy kiss, but his mouth tastes as intoxicating as his skin smells, and she wonders, for a moment, whether the daze she’s been in all afternoon has had much to do with the drink and herbs at all. Maybe she’s drunk on Bill, and at that thought, she gets the giggles again, rolling away from him to lie on her back and laugh to the friendly sky. The stars seem to dance, in silvery, multicoloured patterns, laughing with her.

Bill seems lost, a step behind her, not sure what she’s laughing at or why that just happened, but he clearly wants it to happen again, because he stops her laughter with a second kiss, leaning over her, the press of his body against hers pinning her down. This time it’s deeper, his lips exploring hers, his tongue begging for entrance into her mouth, and she opens to let him, bringing her hands up into his hair, holding him close.

This is nothing like the last time they kissed, when her lips were dry and his, tentative; a goodbye kiss between two people who had only just begun to really know each other. This is a kiss without a care in the world, a kiss saying hello to new possibilities, new lives. Laura is fascinated by Bill’s lips, by how gentle they are even in their passion, exploring every millimeter of hers. As his hand moves to her hip and then slides down to the top of her thigh, she recognises the taste of moonshine and freedom.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours, but she’s shaken from her contemplation by a loud whoop nearby, as a group of revellers dance by, singing some out-of-tune song she remembers being popular on Caprica once upon a time. Bill seems not to have noticed, but the air is cooling and the noise growing louder, and she turns her head slightly, tearing her lips away from his.

“Inside. Let’s go inside, Bill. It’ll be warmer.”

He eases away from her slowly, clearly resenting every second that he isn’t touching her. “You got a bed in there?”

She starts to giggle again. “Yes, I have a bed. You planning on using it for something, hm?”

Bill pushes himself to his feet, unsteadily, and reaches a hand down to help her up. “Miss Roslin, I’m too old to be rollin’ around on the floor.” His words are slurred, and as he pulls her to her feet, he staggers a little, which only causes her to laugh more.

“That’s Dr Roslin, thank you, Admiral.” The title doesn’t sting tonight; she even relishes the way it rolls off her tongue, reminding her of the effort she put into earning it and the pride of her family when she succeeded. She reaches a hand out to brush a little dirt from his shoulder, just wanting an excuse to touch him again, and is rewarded by the biggest smile she’s ever seen on him. _Lords, his whole face changes when he smiles like that._

“Never kissed a doctor before.” He rests his hand on her lower back, gently ushering her towards her tent, and she marvels at his attempts at courtesy even as he tightens his fingers on her waist to help to keep him upright.

“You and Cottle never had a thing? Stuck out in space for months at a time, nothing to do...” She ducks under the tent flap, turning to hold it open for him, and nods towards the cot in the corner of the small space. He loosens his tight grip on her hip and walks the few steps towards it, sinking down onto the creaking springs.

“Uhuh. Not my type.” He watches her as she navigates her way around the cramped tent, lighting a dim lantern which she sets on the small wooden table, fastening the cords that hold the tent flap closed, moving the sheaf of unmarked papers from the end of her bed. “You gonna keep dancin’ about like that all night, or you gonna c’mere?”

There’s just a hint of nervousness in the pit of her stomach that she hides with a smirk as she moves towards him, coming to stop just in front of him where he can reach out and hold her hips again. It’s been a long time, years, since she slept with anyone new, and that’s clearly the direction this is heading. She’s always been self-conscious, the nagging part of her consciousness that is a spectator in her own life -- analytical, critical -- always loud and pushy the first time she’s naked with someone. It’s barely a whisper tonight, though, and she relishes the quiet in her mind as Bill leans forward and rests his forehead against her stomach for a moment, his thumbs caressing her hipbones through her skirt.

He leans backward, suddenly, pulling her off her feet to sprawl across him. She’s breathless, hands on either side of his head, looking down at that beaming smile again, falling into it, and she moves to kiss it away, afraid that she might get addicted to that smile and the tenderness in those eyes. He tastes no less heady this time, and she maps his mouth with her own, tongue swiping over his bottom lip.

She feels his hand slide over her thigh, bunching the fabric of her skirt up until he finds skin, and the touch of his fingers tracing gently across the crease between her ass and her thigh, slipping under the edge of her panties, is almost too much. Suddenly, this is all she could possibly want: this, Bill, the crackle in the air, the scent of flowers and smoke and musk, the breeze making the sides of the tent ripple, the murmurs and shouts from somewhere outside. Her senses are on overload, and she realises, for the first time, how much she’s missed the simple act of living to _live_ , not just to exist.

He’s hardening against her thigh, and she finds herself unconsciously rubbing gently against him as they kiss, the rasp of cotton against wool reminding her that they’re both still fully dressed. She’s lost all sense of time this evening, not knowing if they’ve been lying here a minute or an hour, drowning in each other’s kisses. She moves a hand to the fastening of his jacket, wanting to burrow down into the layers of clothing until she reaches skin, and he stops kissing her for a moment to help. She sits up, astride him, tugging at his jacket until he sits up too, letting her pull it off and drop it to the floor. She tugs his tanks over his head and finally can feel skin under the palms of her hands.

Bill’s eyes are dark in the low light from the lantern, and he seems unable to take his gaze from her face as she runs her hands over the muscles of his arms, traces the line of the scar on his chest, bends to run her tongue over his collarbone, drops a hand down to fumble with the waistband of his pants. She wants everything at once, wants to taste him and smell him, touch him, feel him. There’s a draught somewhere in her tent, and the breeze plays on his flesh, raising goosebumps; she imagines she can feel every single one. She’s fascinated by the stark way her pale hands stand out against his skin, and runs her hands all over his chest and down his arms, just to watch the contrast.

The rumble of his voice breaks her from her reverie as he murmurs “Laura”. She turns her attention to his face, but he’s just tasting her name, seeing if it tastes the way she does, memorising the sensation of the two together, or so she thinks.

His hands move from where they’re cupping her ass, up her back, underneath the camisole she’s wearing, sliding it upwards until the scarlet wrap stops him. In her own frustration to feel his hands on her skin, she tears at the knot securing the wrap under her breasts, ripping the fabric a little as the sides come apart, and she yanks it off, tossing it onto the floor. He slides the camisole up over her head, catching one strap on her elbow, and she giggles as he pulls at it, finally getting it off. He fumbles at the clasp of her bra for a few moments, tugging at the band, dropping wet kisses over her upper chest, until she finally pushes his hands out of the way and unclasps it herself.

The expression on his face as he peels the fabric away from her breasts is all childish delight. “Perfect, jus’ beautiful.” She knows she’s not perfect, but the way he’s looking at her, enthralled, makes her believe him. This man can make her believe anything tonight.

He brings his hands up to cup her, running his thumbs first over the underside of her breasts, then slowly in circles around her nipples, and she feels them hardening against his touch, against the cool night air. The first wet touch of his tongue against her makes her shiver, and she tilts her head back, closing her eyes, gasping a little when she feels the warmth of his mouth draw her in.

He seems content to stay there indefinitely, caressing a breast softly with his fingers, kissing and sucking the other, trading off every so often. The soft grunts of bliss he makes as he does send shivers of warmth down Laura’s spine, and the slower he goes, the more keyed up she becomes. Her nipples are so sensitive, and every draw of his mouth, every soft pinch of his fingertips, makes her ache.

She takes one of his hands, drawing it down to her thigh, trying to push it under her skirt and between her legs where she needs it so badly now, whimpering softly, but he resists.

“Patience, Laura. Don’t wanna rush it.” He lifts his head from her breast, the low lamplight on her glistening nipple making it glow, and she stares at her own skin, fascinated, for a moment before she realises he’s easing her off his lap and onto her back on the cot, moving away from her down towards her feet.

He runs his hands over her boots, admiringly, for a moment before he eases first one, then the other, off her feet. The slide of the soft leather against the sole of her foot makes her giggle, again, and she claps a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle it. She’s been laughing far too much tonight and it feels rusty, like someone has unstoppered a bottle in which she’s been keeping her joy locked away, but every sensation is magnified, and she’s always been ticklish.

Bill pushes her skirt up to her thighs, running a finger up her left shin.

“You know you got freckles on your knees?”

“Mmhm.”

His voice rumbles against her skin as he bends his head to kiss each one, working his way slowly up her leg. She thinks he’s counting them. The soft, torturous kisses are driving her out of her mind, and she groans in frustration at the time he’s taking, moving from one leg to the other, tracing patterns on her thighs, getting close and then retreating from where she wants him to be.

“Bill.”

He ignores her and she says his name again more urgently, twitching her leg to get his attention and accidentally catching the side of his face against her knee. He grunts at the slight pain and lifts his head up to look at her, a confused expression on his face, and she thinks that, for a moment, he’d forgotten she was there, so caught up was he in exploring every inch of her skin.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, but please? Just ...” She sits up, watching him watch her breasts sway as she does. “I want ...” She lifts herself to shimmy out of her own skirt and underwear, tossing them onto the floor beside the cot before crawling towards him, pulling at his belt. He lets her, cupping her breasts again as she fumbles at his pants, taking a nipple back into his mouth and distracting her.

She can’t tell if this gentleness, this languidness, is the weed or if it’s just _Bill_ , but she can’t stand it any longer tonight, and the moment she gets his belt undone and his pants open, she’s pushing him to stand so that she can tug them down, and then drawing him down again, lying back on the cot and pulling him next to her.

She reaches between them and takes him in her hand, stroking him lightly at first, running her thumb over the tip. He responds by capturing her mouth again, teasing her lips with his own. She slides a leg over him, her calf brushing over his, her caresses growing rougher, needier, and he stops her with a wince, holding her hand against his hip and moving his kisses to her throat, her shoulders.

“Easy.”

She almost growls in frustration, yanking her hand away from him, pulling at his hips, pushing at his torso.

“Bill, _please_ ...”

At last, _at last_ , he moves his hand down to where she wants it, tracing his fingers along her sex. She can feel how wet she is against his hand, and when he finally slips two fingers inside her, it’s so smooth and easy she’s almost surprised. She rocks against his hand, her hands now tangling in his hair as she kisses him, tasting him, groaning softly against his mouth.

It’s better, but it’s not enough, and she wants more and more. The palm of his hand against her clit is pressing in almost the right way, but not quite, and the frustration of being so close and yet so far away is tempting her to push his hand away so that she can finish this herself, just for the relief of the release. She grips his shoulders instead, feeling the bunch of his muscles as he teases her to dizzying heights.

When he moves away from her, the loss of his hand makes her feel empty and lost for a moment, before he moves over her. She opens her eyes, not realising she’s squeezed them shut, and looks up into his, filled with something she can’t ... doesn’t want to define. His fingertips dance over her cheekbones, over her jawline, and tiny kisses against her eyelids, against the corner of her mouth, her hairline, make her close her eyes again.

It stings a little, unexpectedly, when he pushes inside her. It’s been so long, and the smooth slide of his fingers hadn’t quite prepared her for this, but after that first moment, she wraps her legs around his hips, wanting him deeper. He groans as she clutches his ass, trying to pull him closer. They’re struggling to find a rhythm: too fast, too slow, fighting against one another to set the tempo. Her grip on him is too tight, and he takes her wrists and pulls them up over her head, holding them there, making her body arch against him and a moan escape her lips.

The air smells of sweat and sex and sweet-scented smoke, and Laura finds herself fascinated by the way the soft golden lamplight makes the perspiration on Bill’s skin shine. Her mind seems to have split itself in half; one part is hypnotised by every detail of this, every strand of Bill’s hair, every kiss of his lips against her neck, every groan that escapes him as her legs press harder. The other is simply _moremoremore_ , pushing her hips against him, seeking that perfect angle that will give her the release her body has been seeking all day. All year.

He’s speeding up and she can tell he’s getting close, but she’s not there yet, and the thought of being left wanting after _all this_ is just too much. His strained murmur against her ear to _come_ leaves her pulling her wrist from his grip, and when he lets go, she snakes a hand down, pushing at him until he lifts a little and she can touch herself, swirling circles in the way she needs.

Her own practiced touch is enough to send her flying in seconds, and she cries out, squeezing her eyes closed again, the stars dancing in silvery, multicoloured patterns behind her eyelids.

The moment she feels herself clench around him, she feels him pulse inside her, and she’s not surprised: they fight against each other, they pull in different directions, they frustrate each other, but in the end, they always reach the same point together. This is Bill, and it’s always been between them.

They lie together, joined, breathing heavily, neither of them wanting to part just yet. Bill’s face is buried in the crook of her neck, and she relishes the weight of him on her, the solidness of his body. She trickles her fingers down his spine, soothingly, teasingly, and he twitches against her.

When she hears him murmur “Sorry” against her throat, she turns her head towards him, and he lifts his to look at her.

“What are you sorry for?”

“Could’ve been better. You had to ...” He eases out of her, rolling onto his side, onto his back. His eyes are a little glazed, whether from the weed or from the sex, she’s not sure, and she wonders how much he’ll remember of this tomorrow. How much she’ll remember. She wants to wrap tonight in a box with a bright coloured ribbon and tuck it away to be brought out for special occasions.

His sleepy expression makes her smile, and she presses a kiss to his forehead.

“It was great, Bill. It was _us_.” She curls her body alongside his, beautifully aching and a little sore.

He grunts. “Not perfect.” His eyelids are drooping, but he curves an arm round her, pulling her closer. “You’re perfect.”

She snorts in return, but doesn’t argue the point because a soft snore escapes him, so she lays her head on his chest and wills her own mind to calm.

She’s pondering the meaning of perfection when the first crack of thunder rumbles, and the sky follows her release.

 _Perfect_ is her last thought as she falls asleep to the patter of rain on canvas.


End file.
